There was a flurry of activity at the ranch following the murder of Emilio and the disappearance of Robert--and then a few days when there was just me and my dad and Theo and Gordon, in addition to the remaining servants. There were no pool parties during this period, and Theo put off the plans to go up to his cabin.

Theo stuck close to me, showing great concern and what I would have recognized as mothering if I had much of a notion what that was. Even so, he behaved more toward me like Robert had done than my mother ever did, so I understood that he was trying to make sure I was all right. Both Charles Tilton and Andrew Dix came to the ranch a couple of times each--never in each other's company though. Theo shooed Dix away, and it was Tilton's fortune to come when police investigators were there taking their measurements and interviewing each of us yet again. And, upon seeing them, Tilton, who had quite enough problems with the police already, beat a hasty retreat. He did try to get me to take a drive with him once--and I would have been happy to do so--but Theo scotched the idea. I was Theo's assistant now on this movie they were making, and he actually gave me work to do. He told Tilton I was too busy.

My dad and Gordon Fields apparently had patched up whatever fight they had the night Emilio died, and they spent most of the time in my dad's bedroom or study, during which time I presumed they put at least a little effort into learning lines for the movie. And often they were both out by the pool with the physical trainer, who had shown up here rather than Theo's cabin to start getting their torsos in tip-top shape for High Timber.

I gathered it had been the physical trainer, Gustav, who had been at the crux of the disagreement between my dad and Gordon, because I overheard Gordon telling the police that he had been with Gustav the night Emilio died. Since then, though, Gustav had been staying in one of the cottages beyond the pool house until summoned to work with my dad and Gordon together, and then he went right back to the pool house. Gordon was spending the nights in my father's bed now.

I won't say my dad was cold to me during this period, but something seemed to have happened between us that I had completely missed. His moments with me were strained, and either Gordon or Theo were always there between us--almost physically, it seemed--and my dad talked in clipped tones and with an edge of irritation when addressing me--and he always seemed to be looking at his hands and trying to keep them in his pockets.

For a couple of days, it seemed like we were moving into a routine, albeit a highly tense one that included regular visitations by policemen, who were utterly polite and respectful, but who kept asking the same questions of all of us all over again. I continued to lie about what I had seen and heard. I convinced myself that it didn't have anything to do with what subsequently happened to Emilio. At the same time, I blotted out of my mind any suggestion that Robert was responsible for Emilio's death. That left me with a possibility I didn't like any better.

By the weekend, though, there was a flurry of activity that changed the routine entirely. My mother returned home in high dungeon from the filming of her art movie in Norway. She didn't return to a house of randy men, though. My dad got prior notice--but not much--of her arrival, and when her pink Mercedes convertible pulled up in front of the ranch house, there were just my dad and me and Efenia to greet her.

She spent her first half hour with Efenia and then the next hour ranting at my dad, ending in a series of instructions that were delivered like bursts from a machine gun and that left no room for discussion any more than bullets would. Theo and Gordon were to take me and the physical trainer, Gustav, on up to Theo's cabin; my dad could jolly well scare up another physical trainer and go to the Malibu house; and the family lawyer would be summoned to the ranch to deal with the lingering police contingent. And, as for my mother, she was going into L.A. to stay with Magda Nadar in her apartment. Now that her movie was in the can, she had obligations to promote it, and she needed to be near the movie studio. Magda conveniently lived near the studio lot.

It was thus that I celebrated my eighteenth birthday--without so much as a telephone call from either of my parents--at Theo's cabin in the San Rafael Mountains above Santa Barbara, where both he and Gordon Fields also had beach houses.

On the afternoon of my eighteenth birthday, Theo sent the personal trainer to Malibu, telling me he was going to take a couple of days to check out my dad's bulking-up progress. I had been training with Gordon for nearly a week myself, and I thought we both were muscling up and trimming down real well. Gustav was nicely built, although his face was ugly as sin--not, however, diminishing his sexual attraction. But as far as I could tell, he, like me--and Robert--was an exclusive bottom. I had plenty of opportunity to find that out while he was still with us, as he slept with Gordon and I'd seen them fucking.

My birthday dinner was just with Theo and Gordon, and they made much of my "being a man now." And they said being a man included being able to take a man's drink. So, along with the steaks and fries and a huge salad, followed by a birthday cake they'd somehow conjured up, they let me have a Scotch and water before dinner and wine with dinner. It wasn't enough to make me drunk, but I had a buzz on when I crawled into bed.

As gag gifts--along with the theme of me coming of age--they gave me a string of condom packets, a bottle of lube, and a pair of skimpy red silk sleeping briefs that they suggested I celebrate by wearing to bed that night.

"These gifts don't embarrass you?" Theo asked after I'd opened them, and laughed as easily as they did.

"Not at all," I answered. "I'm been waiting for this for some time. I've been busting to get to the experience."

"I've noticed that," Gordon said with a smile. "Anyone you got your eye on in particular?"

I did pause then, and blush.

"Not a girl, I don't think," Theo said. "I'd say Chuck Tilton, if my eyes don't deceive me. Seems to me you want to go to the extreme from the starting gate."

I didn't answer--couldn't find the words--but I didn't really need to answer. Theo had been right there when all of the men had been buzzing around me at the ranch like I was a honey pot. And he couldn't have avoided seeing that I had liked that--and had been frustrated about not being able to do anything about it.

"You'd do it right now if Tilton were here, wouldn't you?" Theo asked in a low voice. "You'd do it right here on the table and let Gordon and me watch." I didn't think the drool on his lips was from the steak.

After a paused I responded with a "Yes" in even a lower voice.

"Ahh, well," he said. "you go on into the cabin to go to bed now. I think we've allowed you almost too much liquor. But maybe it will help you to have super birthday dreams."

I left them then, thinking that the evening had ended in anticlimax. I had had fantasies about what my eighteenth birthday might be--the sexual liberation it might bring--and here I was, isolated at the end of the world again. I stripped down and pulled on the red sleeping briefs, put the condoms and lube on the nightstand next to my bed, and turned out the light and drifted into a sleep that--with the effect of the liquor buzz--had me riding the waves in an ocean.

All of the men at the rolling ranch pool party had gotten me in high heat for them just in conversations during the previous two weeks. And here at the cabin, Theo and Gordon had continued with the suggestive talk--they were both masters of this.

Once alone with me in the cabin in the dark later that night, after awakening me from sleep that Saturday night and to desire with the wandering of their hands and lips on my nubile body, Theo sat back in a lounge chair near the bed and worked his hard cock with his hand while he gave direction to Gordon, as the young actor slipped the silken sleeping briefs down over my hips and legs, worked his way down my body with his lips, and opened his mouth over my throbbing cock. Following this, his hand coaxed my thighs apart and cupped and gently squeezed my balls. I was whimpering and sighing and moaning and came rather quickly in the exotic and overpowering experience of my first masterful blow job, doubly impassioned by the deep, rich voice of the powerful movie producer voicing what the young actor would then be doing to my body.

I was well into the experience before I ever realized that this really was happening--that this wasn't the dream I wanted to have and had drifted into.

I arched my back and moaned when Theo told Gordon to spread my legs and go down between them and start tonguing my hole. I whimpered in fear and anticipation when he started talking of what he was going to be invading my channel with and how gloriously filling I would find it. I wondered briefly whether I was supposed to object, to break away and escape, but the pleasure was just too intense, and the young actor's body was just too beautiful.

I was on my back on the edge of the bed and Gordon was standing between my spread thighs, leaning over and sucking on my taut nipples. He raised his head and smiled at me--the smile that sent women all over the world into a swoon. And my dad as well. At the thought, I imagined this was my dad doing this to me--and I realized that the thought aroused me. But it wasn't my dad; it was his lover, Gordon. Gordon wanted me as much as he wanted my dad. That too was arousing. His fingers, which had been working inside my channel, were spreading my entrance, and I could feel his bulb at my hole. I was terrified, but I wanted him.

That was when I heard Theo's voice cutting through the darkness. Husky, thick as molasses. I could sense the lust in him.

"Move aside now, Gordon," he whispered in a hoarse, insistent voice. "I've waited for years for this moment."

Gordon's face withdrew, to be replaced with Theo's. And it was Theo's dick slowly entering me, plowing into virgin territory. And I cried out and moved my hips in rhythm with his as he moved deeper inside me. And I realized that I had been waiting for this for years too.

Theo leaned down over me and whispered in my ear, "Happy birthday, Clint. I hope you are happy with this."

"Oh, god, yes," I replied in a murmur punctuated with a groan. "Finally. Oh, god, yes. I . . . (gasp) . . . hoped it would be like this. Oh GAWD YES."

After Theo had filled and stretched and worked me in my first taking and ballooned out his condom deep inside me, he slowly withdrew from me while taking my lips in his. Then he stepped back away from me and pulled Gordon back into my line of vision.

"Now you," he said.

Gordon took my hips in his hands and turned me onto my belly, and I felt the insistent hardness of him thrusting strongly into me and swiftly and at length vigorously pumping as I groaned and begged him to slow down--but no, to do it just like that. Faster and harder and deeper. I know now--and appreciate--what a master cocksman Gordon was. He fully earned his reputation with theatergoers. His cock didn't just impale and pump; it made love to every square inch of my channel, sending my channel into waves and waves of undulating pleasure.

After he had ejaculated, he made to pull out of me, but I wrapped my legs around him and held his pelvis against mine, dug into his shoulders with my fingers, tightened my channel on his cock, holding him inside me.

He laughed and palmed and squeezed my buttocks. "Want it again, so soon?" he asked. Then he laughed. "Randy little trollop, aren't you. Like father like son, they say. Maybe later."

"No, now," I whimpered. "Again. And then again and again and again."

"Ah, Mr. Insatiable. I guess I could manage . . . such a sweet, sweet ass."

And manage he could, very nicely. And after him, Theo again. And then a recharged Gordon.

Later, after I had been fucked to exhaustion, Gordon pulled me up from the bed and settled me in the chair, and then he fucked Theo on the bed, while Theo watched me, giving me "that" look that told me we would be doing this at every opportunity. And I couldn't think of a single reason to object to that idea.

As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Gordon laugh and say, "Neat trick to get in there before Tilton and the lad's dad. I honestly didn't think he was going to make it to today. Can't get enough, can he? A real find."

And Theo's answer: "I've been working on this particular production for years."

When we left the cabin, there were no condemn packets left the string I'd been given for my birthday.

* * * *

Two days later, when the most physical training Gordon was getting or exercise that Theo was indulging in was between my legs, where they were both flabbergasted at my insatiable appetite for being fucked, Theo received a telephone call from my dad. The police investigation had been concluded. Robert had thrown himself down from the roof of a Las Vegas hotel and left a confession behind. He had killed Emilio in a fit of lover's jealousy because Emilio had been free and easy sexually with guests at our ranch and Robert had wanted him for himself. My mother--Magda Nadar in tow--had gone off to do the morning shows in New York. And my dad was bored and wanted to start up the pool party at the ranch again. The physical trainer my father had found had agreed to switch to pool boy, and my dad was finding him a quite satisfactory substitute for Emilio. Gustav had disappeared from the picture.

And my dad wanted us to return to the party.

Gordon didn't take the news of the new pool boy all that well, and so we hurriedly packed and were on our way back down from the mountains into Santa Barbara for a night at Gordon's beach house, where he regretted to inform us that he had only one bedroom and one bed. We made do with that without a problem, though, with me sleeping between the two and being fucked in alternating entanglements. Once again the two of them were amazed at how much and how often I wanted it. And, while I grieved for Robert, I saluted him for his foresight in knowing that once the dam was burst in my "getting it," I would never be able to get enough.

Robert had once put a phrase to it. He'd said it was mild satyriasis. I had to look that up. The thought that he'd said "mild" was comforting. And it sounded like a much nicer word for it than "slut," "male whore," or "promiscuous."

Neither Gordon nor Theo seemed to object.

In another three days, I was back at the ranch, and the party was in full swing. Within hours, I'd been fucked by all of the muscle hunks who had been the first to show up for the party at my dad's bidding--except for the personal trainer, turned new pool boy, whose name appeared to have been Joe, and Gordon Fields. Both of these guys were in a duel over dominance of my dad--which meant, of course, that he was still managing to dominate them. I was slightly disappointed to find Gene hadn't come back to the party, but I was so besieged with randy suitors that I didn't have much time to think about it.

I was beginning to thinking about this concept of domination, though. I knew now that I enjoyed being fucked. But the more I thought about it, it wasn't the simple act I craved. I also sought the domination. Theo had started this thinking in my brain. He'd picked out Charles Tilton as the one he thought I wanted the most of the men who were on my horizon. I'd thought it was Robert I wanted. But Robert had never shown an indication he would dominate me. And as I thought about it, from the moment I saw Charles Tilton in action, Robert had begun to recede from my sexual focus. Both Theo and Gordon dominated me in their own way--but I didn't shudder at the reality of what they did to me that I did at the mere thought of what Tilton would do.

The afternoon was wearing on. The hometown professional baseball teams were all playing at home, and the day men--I called them day men, because they were the ones who weren't living at the ranch, including my dad, the personal trainer, and me--were beginning to drift away.

My dad had been with Gordon, which means when he came out to the glass doors between the house and pool area and called out the name "Joe"--the personal trainer--Joe's very-well developed chest was pressing down on mine on a lounge, as he leveraged on his bare feet on tiles on either side of the lounge to work his cock ever deeper inside me. It was my first time with Joe, my dad having pretty much monopolized his services to this point, and I was moaning for him loudly as he reached a deeper depth and pistoned harder than most of the other guys could managed. It was a tribute to how hard he worked his body, how much stamina he could manage. He'd been pumping me nonstop for twenty minutes--and, although I'd come and likely would come again soon, it seemed like he never would. And I couldn't get enough of him, running my hands over his hard muscles, glistening with sweat. Listening to his snorts and groans--in full rut. Wanting me so badly that he was fucking me with wild abandon. Robert had told me it would be like this. I was in heaven.

I looked up and my dad was standing in the door, watching us, a murderous expression on his face turning to pique.

"Joe," he said more sternly--not louder, just more sternly. And Joe, knowing who paid the bills was out of me, murmuring "later," and had left me just building toward satisfaction number two.

I laid there after the two had gone inside, still breathing heavily. I thought there was no one else out at the pool, but as I gazed over at the pool house, I saw Andrew Dix, the TV game show host. He was sitting there, watching me, his dong out, cupped by his hand. I hadn't seen Dix fucking anyone the whole time he'd been coming to pool parties. He always seemed to be in it just for the blow job.

I considered him as he was considering me. I hadn't done much sucking. It had always been just a brief prelude to the fuck, and the guys who had taken me so far seemed anxious to get to the fuck. I didn't know if I wanted to spend a lot of time blowing a guy for him to just walk off and leave me when he was satisfied. But I didn't know I wouldn't like it unless I'd tried it a couple of times.

I was saved from whatever I was working up there by a movement I saw over at the corner of the house. Charles Tilton was walking around the house and into the pool area. He was dressed only in low-hung shorts and loafers without socks and a pair of sunglasses. He stopped when he saw me, still sprawled on my back on the lounge, naked, my cock erect and already craving more attention, slightly nodding at him.

He only paused for a moment before he walked over to the lounge, latched onto my wrist in a strong, painful snatch, and pulled me up on my feet. He pulled, almost dragging me, around the pool and to the pathway running down around the side of the pool house back toward the guest cottages.

Half way around the pool house, he slammed my back up against the wooden wall, where he had first cornered me and where he subsequently had fucked Emilio while watching me, and stood there very close to me, facing me. His breathing was heavy.

"Undo them?"

"What? I don't understand."

"Undo my shorts."

I reached down, hands trembling. I was scrabbling at the buttons at his waistband, and, impatient, he slapped my hands away and undid them himself. Then he moved his hands to my waist. He let me unzip him and push the shorts down over his hips, whereupon they fell to the ground. He wasn't wearing anything under them. My hand brushed against his towering hard on, and I shuddered. He smiled an evil little smile at that.



The heel of one of his now-bare feet hit the back of my knee and I tumbled down, the head of his cock hitting my lips as I went down, and he thrust it inside my mouth, slicing between my lips like a knife through butter. I gasped and gagged as he roughly fucked my face, one hand brutally pressed into the side of my head, the other one fisted into my hair, and moving me in the rhythm he was dictating.

This only lasted a few moments, though. He pulled me up, slammed my back against the rough wood and had his hands under my thighs, lifting and spreading my legs. My ass had been working full time that afternoon, so I didn't pass out as his cock split me--thicker than anything I had had that day. One, two, three thrusts--deep each time. Each time almost exiting, but then thrusting deep inside me. I cried out at each thrust. Four, five, six, seven, eight. My mind counted them like bottles of beer on the wall. Nine, ten, eleven. And then I came up his belly in an ejaculation I'd been building with Joe.

He pulled out of me and I dropped in a pile to the ground, in the narrow space between his legs and the wall.

He was still breathing heavily. I could hear the air whistling through his nose.

"Come to the car. I'm taking you with me."

I raised my head to see him striding back to and beyond the pool, swinging his shorts at his side in his hand.

When he reached the other side of the pool, he turned and looked at me expectantly. I started to rise, my eyes glued to his figure. Desperately wanting more of that. But then, beyond him, standing just inside the house. My dad. Watching.

I did manage to stumble up then, but when I was on my feet, two guys, under my dad's direction, were carrying me down the path, away from the house and the pool--to the cottage where Robert had lived. I entered and collapsed on the bed Robert had recently occupied. And began to cry.

That night, exhausted--more mentally than physically--I was laying on the couch in the lounge. Only a few of the lamps around the tables were on and there was soothing music on the stereo. An opened bottle of Scotch and a half-filled glass were on the coffee table. It was my first--and, according to my plan, the only--glass I would have tonight. Still, I felt the buzz. I hadn't learned to hold liquor yet. I wasn't sure I ever would be able to. Robert had told me I didn't want to go down that route. He hadn't told me I didn't want to imbibe in male sex, though. Robert had his priorities.

My dad came into the room, his own glass of Scotch in his hand. His glass was much taller and had less Scotch left in it than mine did.

He was dressed only in his dressing gown, and the expression on his face told me that this would be "the night." Nothing in my makeup and my peculiar form of innocence saw anything wrong with that.

He said nothing. He just pulled up a footstool beside the couch and sat down on it. The dressing gown below the sash fell away as he did so and his erect cock was exposed. It was a very nice cock. And in recent days, I'd had a lot of opportunity to compare cocks.

He just said one word, in the form of a question. "Clint?"

And I only answered with one word, in the form of surrender. "Yes."

One of his hands went to the fly of my sleeping pajama bottoms, and he was holding my cock, which was rising for him, telling him in its own way it was OK. I heard and felt his intake of breath and looked steadily into his eyes, which were glittering with anticipation. He began to stroke me slowly, in long strokes. His thumb was on the head of my cock, which was producing precum for him. I moaned and my pelvis went into an involuntary anticipation.

"Slow, please," I murmured. "All the others can't wait. Inside me, please. But slow, deep."

"Oh, Clint," he murmured. His hand on my cock was trembling.

I was only wearing the bottoms, and his other hand began to glide around on my chest and then went up to the back of my neck, and he was lifting my face to his. We kissed.

While we kissed, I possessed his cock with one of my hands. When he pulled away from my lips, he leaned over and kissed down my sternum and belly, and his lips opened over the head of my cock and descended to the root. I moaned and moved my lips to the head of his cock.

And then the world was lit up. I heard the front door slam back hard against the wall, and my dad was jumping up and stepping away from me.

I raised my head and looked over the back of the couch. My mother, standing in the door, swathed in some sort of white, fluffy fur that set off her platinum hair and long white kidskin gloves nicely. Diamonds at wrist and neck and ears sparkling brightly. The premier Hollywood actress entering the scene, commanding the scene. Behind her, looking down, deceptively chastely at the marble floor tiles of the foyer, but with a satisfied little smile on her face--Magda Nadar.

My mother only had one, commanding, definitive word for my dad. "Upstairs."

And he turned and fled up the stairs.

To me she had only a few more words. "Pack. I'll have Grayson drive you to the Malibu house." Good old Grayson, Mother's long-suffering chauffeur and gofer--always at her beck and call, because my mother did not drive. She famously had told the world that it interfered with her drinking.

Rather anticlimactic words, but ones I'll never forget. Because they were the last words my mother ever spoke to me.



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